The Land of Qualms
by Phrenology of a Waffle
Summary: When you’re walking in a land of qualms, you have nothing to fear except falling into fear itself. But you should watch out for vulnerability, insecurity, and shadows too. HouseCuddy AU. Presently on unfortunate hiatus.
1. Vacuum

Author's Note: Hello all! As you can tell by the date on my profile, I'm new, but I've been reading on for ages. Anyway, this is my first posted story, and it is the sixth story I've written in a matter of two years. But I'm not that slow; I just worked on a forty-six page horror up until May of this year, and, it is so awful, the computer freezes whenever I open it. Anyway, please, as you usually would, read and review; lavish yourself in the tranquil—okay, maybe not tranquil—pools of my work. Thank you very much!

Disclaimer: Even if I did own House, I would still make him an abrasive son-of-a-gun with a whip of sarcasm. Otherwise, it's not House.

Spoiler: Unless you count inspiration from "Honeymoon", ("I will not have sex with you! Not again. It was miserable that first time… All that desperate administrative need.") then, no. But, really, there are no spoilers as of yet.

Note: The part about the red shroud, it's a dream, and then it shoots to a flashback. But, after the horizontal rule, it's back to the present. Just thought I'd let you know.

* * *

The Land of Qualms

Chapter One: Vacuum

"Cuddy, I'm not having sex with you again."

A grating glare adorned her eyes, a subtle darkening mimicking a transition between sunset and night.

"You don't have to."

He turned around, his blue eyes flowing over with curiosity, which masked the anxiety that was crawling up his skin like the limelight.

"I'm pregnant."

For a fleeting second, his eyes seemed to widen, as though they were searching for the air of euphoria that at one point had danced about his features. But, to their misfortune, it had disappeared long ago.

"Well then, I guess those shirts you love will have to go bye-bye for a few months." And, with that, House limped down the hall, the jangling of his Vicodin bottle like a baby's rattle.

A baby's rattle. Could this be a perverse reality? She started after him, her slender form casting shadows that frolicked upon the walls. Inside, she felt disoriented, like a winding road, and it seemed as though she had become feeble, like she was naked in front of a crowd of spectators. And, in that crowd, there he was, staring at her intently, gazing upon her being, and all she could envision were those callous eyes. Then she remembered. It was all a dream.

_Sodium patterns threw themselves against the white backdrop. And there she stood, her eyes grazing over the crowd, finding familiarity to be dominant in its presence. But one face in particular bestowed an unsettled feeling in core. His blue eyes scanned her body, every curve accentuated by the light shining upon her crimson shroud. The air around them sang, waves of life curling at their feet that bowed humbly. The sky was filled with color, spectrums shining down upon the ground in a foreign manner. The alien glow shone down upon her, washing over her body like a sheet of rain. But, with a sudden intensity, the shroud was torn from her body, floating gently on waves of wind. _

Cuddy moaned slightly as the pasty cover was removed from her body, abstract patterns dancing in the light of the sunrise. She turned over only to see him. House. Her temples throbbed, pulsing violently as blood rushed through, and she gazed down over her body, observing the absence of the blanket.

"House…"

"What? I had to pee."

* * *

"House!"

"What?"

"Did you even hear what I said?"

Mock inquiry over-whelmed his features for a moment, before subsiding and allowing uniform petulance to settle. He sat down on one of the chairs lining the hall, his contours instantly conforming to it.

"Why no, Cuddy. Could you please repeat yourself?"

"Greg…"

"Oh fine. You're such a buzz kill."

"I'm not joking here."

"Well, do you ever joke?"

"I'm pregnant… With your child."

He paused for moment, the realization dawning on him in a slow, sensuous manner.

"I know I'm a doctor and all, and should already know this, but, please, tell me how you came to this oddly disgusting conclusion."

"Please, this is hard enough for me to cope with as it is. I don't need your sarcasm as well."

"Right. So we're all so supposed to feel bad for you because you're paid twice as much and have more authority… Just because you're pregnant? Cuddy, you amaze me."

He rested his head on the crest of his cane, stroking his hand lightly over the polished wood, unsettling the glimmers of light that were radiating from it. He looked up at her with his blue eyes, the innocence reflecting his true inner feelings toward the situation.

"If you're not to be serious about this, I'm going to go ahead and do what I planned."

"And that would be?"

"I think you can guess."

She irately went, and he watched her go, sighing morosely like the winds of a storm. His inner-most feelings seemed to be exposed, vulnerable to attack by invisible predators. He felt as though he was the one holding the dagger over the mistress's heart, listening to her begging, her pleading. And yet, even in dominance, he still had the audacity to murder. For now and at the hour, he would be the one burdened by the accusations.

"_Pray for us now and at the hour of our death."_

Not that it was murder, but more of a permissible form of death. But, even so, his heart felt heavy, as though coated with constellations of melancholy.

Now, even for him, the slightly candid air that had enveloped the situation had disappeared, leaving only the reality to stand on feeble legs. He was going to be a father, yet, he was still in denial over her words. It was as though he could not grasp the concept, like it rested on the extreme edge of a plain, but, even though he continued to progress towards it, it remained out of proximity.

"_I'm pregnant… With your child." _

In a scientific manner, he could easily discern how this had occurred. Life force to life force. Man to woman. And, finally, lust overcoming hate. But, realistically, his mind was in a slight haze. Clouds of inconceivability roamed about his conscience, prowling. Rather, beyond these shadows, a maze had appeared, and, in it, his neglected emotions rested, waiting for death. But that did not mean they did not fulfill their duty, or what ever little duty they had. He stood up with effort, his erected figure contradicting the monotonous corridors of the hospital. He gazed out upon the scene before him: nothing. He was in the vacuum of his life, wandering aimlessly into oblivion, peering out beyond the edges of the world he dominated. And that was the way it would remain forever; forever lost in the curse of uniformity, a vast pallor that retreated in every direction, but never found escape. But, although his inner world was desolate, uninhabited by the lush life that would never start anew, he knew that his external life could contrast it. He meandered down the hall, the void moving in pursuit with him like a shadow.

* * *

Author's Note: Alas, the end of chapter one is here. How very melancholic— at least for me. No, but really, I will post another chapter as soon as I can for those loyal readers. Anyway, please, constructive criticism is appreciated, as well as praise. Flaming is a no in my book, so, respect my portrayal of the characters. Thank you! 


	2. Shadow

Author's Note: Well, I hope those of you who read it enjoyed chapter one, and I'm sorry about the anonymous review thing; I forgot to allow it. Wow, lots of reviews for my first posted story. Anyway, I'd like to thank _lemonjelly _(always a loyal pal, and my first reviewer), _BuzzkillBunny_ (critical, but it's what I wanted), _FriendsHolic _(cool name; I explained some of the stuff in note down below), _bloodflower_ (a C2, thanks!), _Catness_ (well, here's the other chapter you wanted), _Ritaann_ (your review was like a work of art!) _Prinnie_ (ah, thank you so much), _Little Lunar Wolf _(a raw talent? Oh, thank you.) and _Sandy at Sea_ (well, this chapter might be a little better). I would appreciate reviews, but I won't beg. I would have probably gotten more if I had done a House/Cameron story, but that's not the way I ship; I can read it every once in a while, though. Okay, so thank you guys, and enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: Et al first chapter.

Spoiler: Et al first chapter, as of now.

Note: If anyone was confused about the last chapter, I'll explain it. It was basically saying she was going to have an abortion, like she tries to do in this chapter, and that she is not going to change her mind even if it is going to kill an innocent life. But when I say, "Even in the glory of dominance, he still had the audacity to murder," I am referring to House. At that point, he was thinking of taking no action against her decision, so House would blame himself for murdering their child, even though Cuddy wouldn't blame herself. But, at the end, he realizes that he must do something, otherwise his life will be like he is inside: a vast nothingness. I think that might help. This isn't my favorite chapter, but, it does have its moments.

Chapter Two: Shadow

She had always believed that shadows embodied insecurity.

"_Cuddy, you embody insecurity. Are you always in denial?" _

She was in denial, and he could see right through her mask. Prominence played a leading role in her life, but, she was insecure. Everyday, a mask would be adorned, shrouding her emotions with appearance. But, once in her domain, her pseudo portrait would be washed away by tears. The answer was simple: she was a clown, and will remain that way as long as she continued her reign of shallowness.

She hated her shadow, loathed every attribute of it and would do so until her death.

Her shadow showed her qualms, her flaws, all of her private matters. Especially one that was the cause of her unbearable yearning. Visibly, lust was victorious, and now, as a result, her shadow reflected it. Maybe that was why she adored the rain.

"_You like the rain? I thought that's what killed your idol. You know, the Wicked Witch of the West." _

When it rained, the light was overcome by a purifying force, like stars in the night sky being subjected to families of clouds washing over them. When there was no light, her shadow sunk back into her being, lurking the dark corners, harvesting her flaws and feeding on them.

But, when it rained, it also reminded her of life.

Without rain, life would not be. The earth would be desolate, a barren land of routine. Atoms would wander aimless in the vacuum of existence, and birth would be only an idea devised by spirits who criticized nature. The green legs of a child would be a mere photograph imprinted into the minds of emotionally- competent men and women, and the term "in utero" would float gently along the wind, the spawn of something submerged in a fantasy.

In utero.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, soft edges contrasting the magnitude this situation. It was as though she could feel House within her mind, mocking her cowardice, her insecurity, her doubts. His voice was a jangle of insanity, slowly searing through her like a fire from within. It began in her core, the rush of the ember like a blade, and it swelled. She could hear his laughing, yet, at the same time, she felt his tears.

And his tears mingled with the water streaming down her form in veins, transparent streaks morphing to her fair skin tone. That morning, her shower ran cold, as though she was numbing away the ache she had yet to feel, but, she saw it as more as preservation. If she could just trap the moment in the drop of water, it would never fade, but, she could still feel his tears.

And they were not shed for her; they for shed for the life within her about to be lost.

In her fragile state, she looked upon him as a God. He circled over her exposed form like a spirit, forever reminding her of the regretful actions she had committed. If she embodied insecurity, then he must have symbolized insanity.

"_Insane? Me? No, you must be talking about Wilson… He didn't wear his Tuesday tie today." _

It amazed her how he could easily transition the blame. It was as though he was a mirror, always showing the faults in others but never himself. But, every mirror had its cracks, and fortunately, she knew how most of them had come to be.

He was always hiding behind his pseudo personality, mocking others with secrets that had been hidden in their shadows.

Unfortunately, her shadow was not one to be gentle, or, even for that matter, kind.

Her shadow was like House.

She laid on the hospital bed, her breathing erratic, and her mind in a haze.

That's when she heard the familiar tap of his cane.

House.

It was as though they had entered a silent scene in a movie, the suspense building with every moment spared. Every action was magnified, and drama reigned over in its presence. His hand brushed past her face, and the syringe in the surgeon's fell to the ground, letting out a shrieking clatter as it went. Cuddy gazed upwards, emotions stumbling about her blue eyes, roaming in vague paths as though they were drunk on confusion. He took her hand, and led her out of the room, and, for a moment, he looked at her. Her slender form was obscured by the over-sized garment she wore, and she looked as vulnerable as a new born.

A new born.

He felt hisfear of exposure cooling him, patches of frigid skin coating his entire body. But, on his hands, he felt someone's skin. Her skin.

_He touched her hips, his hands forming to her bone structure._

His lips tried to form the words with difficulty, but they were impeded by the sensation of someone else's pressed against them.

_Her lips were like silk, softly caressing his, inebriating his mind even further. _

That moment had been preserved in his mind, like an immortal being made of a single flame. It would forever scorch his conscience, an eternal burning that would one day overcome his better judgment and cause him to fall of his edge of sanity. Or had it already?

_Sanity and insanity fell victim to the whirlwind of death that had devoured them, causing his logic to follow in their path. _

"House, what are you doing!"

He had been staring at her subconsciously, for what reason, he did not know. Maybe it was because hehated her to a point whereit was no longerhatebut love, such as a place where extreme dislike morphed into a distorted sense of adoration like a bird with green wings that cannot fly.

And that bird was like their relationship. All the components needed were there, but, it just wouldn't work.

"Saving you."

He took a tighter hold on her hand, and he guided her along, as though they were following a complex warren. Each turn shook them; each twist rattled them, but they were not to be hindered by these formalities. The feeling of the silent movie had disappeared all together, leaving but one thing in its wake: reality.

Today, he had saved two vulnerable lives. But, what did it matter? It was his job.

"_I don't need you telling me I do my job well, Cuddy. I've figured that out for myself."_

Author's Note: Now for the end of chapter two, and I'll make this concise. You can review as you wish, —no flames please. I would greatly take pleasure in you doing so. Constructive criticism is welcome.


	3. One Squared

Author's Note: And now for chapter three. Well, this is some of my late night work. I wrote this at about one in morning. I personally like it, because I love casual scenes between two friends, but I also like it because we get to see a different side of House that I like to think he has. Anyway, for reviews, I would like to thank FriendsHolic (that was quick, and beautiful. I love it), Lizzy Sidle (that comparison of yours deserves an award or something), lemonjelly (and my review was good? Well, I'd like to thank you for yours)

Disclaimer: Et al first chapter. Maybe I'll send Hugh Laurie a "sarcastic whip" for Christmas. That would really add to the already excellent quality of the show, or would it? Now, all I need is an address.

Spoilers: Et al first chapter. There is a slightly reference to "Babies & Bathwater". I love the episode.

Note: Well, the last chapter went over nicely. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I like to think that each chapter is better than the next. And, there is more dialogue in this chapter. I'm not a huge fan of it, but, I know some of you guys like it.

* * *

Chapter Three: One Squared

"How far along is she?"

"I don't know. Why would she tell me that?"

"Because you're the father of the child; I thought that was obvious. You know, when you're not being obnoxious, she actually likes you."

"No, she hates me. Why else would she give me clinic duty?"

"It's part of your job, Greg. And stop whining. You sound too much like a baby."

"You and that irony of yours."

House and Wilson lay on the floor of the office, gazing at the framed band posters leaning at uneven angles against the wall. The sun forced its way through the blinds, abysses of light falling squarely on the carpet, and music played gently in the background, easing the subconscious tension that seemed to have arisen from nowhere in particular.

Wilson looked at him inquiringly before stating, "So, would you like me to do the ultrasound, or you?"

"Can't she do it herself? She is a doctor. Or maybe I'll have Chase do it. She's got a thing for him."

"Fine. I'll do it. It's not like you care anyway."

House looked over at him, his blue eyes streaked with intensity in the glow of the sun, and he tapped his cane tip softly on the ground, the calming thump never beating as wildly as his heart.

"No, I will. She'll want me there anyway, if even she loathes me."

"She does not loathe you! What do you not get? The part about you not being obnoxious and her liking you, or the part where you're a complete jerk so she can't like you?"

"I didn't do nothing. I's just slow in the head, teacher."

"You won't even take this seriously. It's a miracle that she's put up with you for this long."

"You'd think the guy who risked his job to save my butt would have a little more respect for me, but I guess not."

"No, actually, she saved your butt. The least you can do is help her through this. I'm not saying you have to get close. Just get her through the pregnancy, and then figure it out from there."

He continued to stare at Wilson, but this time it was distantly, as though he was trying to stare beyond the opaque wall of the present and into the future. House would not confide in anybody, not even himself, but, secretly, he did want to be close to the child. But, unfortunately, in his present mental status, he felt too fragile to handle the news.

_He needed more protection from the outside world, for his skin was thin and translucent under the light of vulnerability. _

"House, why don't you get it over with? Then you'll both be happy."

His watch of Wilson was broken as these words filled his ears, shattering the wall of untainted silence that had filled the void between them, but, even so, he looked towards the ceiling, his determination to be in a different place over-powering his friend's advice. He had become that leaf on the sidewalk.

He would float along aimlessly, alone, a wanderer, searching the world for what he knew he could never find: solitude. Even on his multi-colored exterior, one realized that he would die without the support of tree, and that, in death, he would lose his beauty, his tenure on Earth and in life, his wit, everything. His remnants would consist of only an outline of what he was like in life, and, slowly, leisurely, in immense sadistic glee, his dream of solitude would fade away, inhabiting nightmares. It would build a wall around itself, such as its owner did, and it too would die.

Sighing, he stood, lightly placing his forehead between his middle in index finger before proceeding to leave the room.

"Hey, House?"

He turned and looked at his friend, and a feeling of estrangement cleansed him like wave. Wilson, at this point, was neither friend nor foe; he was guidance. Now, instead of being clad in silver armor as protection, he stood behind him, painted with gold, watching House slaughter his fears just as he himself had done long ago.

"Take it easy on her. Try to be civil, even if it's just for a little while."

And, with that, House left the room, the quiet click of his cane like the sound of one of his qualms hitting the ground.

* * *

House opened the door, greeted by her indiscernible face.

"Hello again."

"Oh, cut the crap, House. Let's get this over with. I don't need the whole hospital knowing that this is your child."

"Aw, fetuses have feelings too, Cuddy."

"Actually, it's not longer a fetus; I'm three months along, if you must know."

"Are these mood swings a result of the pregnancy, or are you always this mean to me?"

She glared at him, a burning anger so intense that he could feel embers spark from under his skin.

Wordlessly, he rubbed the cool gel on her abdomen, and, turning the machine on, he watched her face. But, she had learned how to build a prison around her feelings, forever entrapping them until the day of her demise.

No longer did rank exist in that room, for they both knew the blame was to be shared equally amongst those who had committed the actions. But one could not help but accuse the other for what had occurred ever so unexpectedly. But, internally, they were of equal position, for hierarchy only existed in the external world.

On that glorious day long ago, they believed their bodies had become one, and, therefore, if and when they were squared, the end result would only be one. One individual. One moment. One reason. One mistake. But, it was not meant to be. Rather, their bodies had not become a solitary individual, and, therefore, they were combined. One lonely man and one lonely woman equaled three. Three hours. Three months. Three lifetimes, and all of it centered around was now shown upon the screen at which he stared.

"It's beautiful."

He said that many times before, but not in such a way that his voice had quieted in a serene manner; not in such a way that innocence was laced in between each word. For once, he felt truly happy. Before, the smiles were false, only formed at the corners of his mouth to fool those who gazed no where beyond the wall of the skin. But, now, his smile was green, like an infant, and it was not there to deceive the shallow minds.

_And developed smiles donned on inexperienced lips, a feeling of arousal rising from the hips. _

"And the day I see you smile is the day clinic duty becomes a distant memory."

He looked over at her, understanding present in her eyes. Had all the years he had been trying to be inscrutable been a meaningless hoax that had failed right from the start? House might have been dubious of his true feelings, but not so dubious as to state his defeat to them. He turned off the machine, the image whisking itself away before it was engulfed by a wave of black.

And he walked out of the room, leaving Cuddy to stare in awe at his retreating figure.

He was only there to drift and die. He would drift farther from his emotions, quarantining them in cruel and mysterious ways, and he would let them die, just as he would, upon the grave that had been set for all of them. But, before his passing, he would fondle the components of his life carefully in his fingers, as though absorbing the sole knowledge of each one. The human body was his means for living, and he would treat it as he would with anything he respected.

_To touch legs, lips, and lace, delving deeper into the thoughts of the weeper as one floats the portal of space. _

* * *

Author's Note: And tin man House has feelings! Gasp! No, but really, I like showing the more "sensitive" side of men in stories like these. Basically the theme of this story is to not let indifference take precedence over emotions. So there is a point to me writing this other than just writing a fan fiction. Okay, so, please read and review as you wish, and constructive criticism is always welcomed into open arms. Thanks! 


	4. Brink

Author's Note: Wow, all of you guys are incredible; twenty-five reviews! How do you manage that? Anyway, I'd like to thank _GsdSheba_ (always beautiful dear, always), _lemonjelly_ (your review is great! You should get more like those, not the usual "humdrum" review!), _Lizzy Sidle_ (always a pleasure to read yours, my friend; great ending to "Vacation"!) _Scrubs_ (holy crap, that review has changed me! Anonymous reviewers unite! I may change the word), _Ritaann_ (your writing is wonderful, and so aren't your reviews; there's no need to sigh), _prinnie_ (I still love that e-mail, and I love the review; thank you for replying!), FriendsHolic (a loyal reader and reviewer; I'll tell you why Cuddy is being moody and a … Well, you know), and Tali- Sara (yes, your review is important; I try to help others like my story as well).

Disclaimer: I may not own the show, but I'm still going to buy Hugh Laurie that sarcastic whip. Anyone want to pitch in for it? We can all sign it!

Spoilers: Eh, none that I know of, but I'm usually wrong.

Note: Okay, as for Cuddy being a witch, —I'm not one for swearing—imagine this: You're pregnant with the child of a man you secretly love. You had insulted him because you didn't want him to know how you really felt, but, what you don't know is, he loved you too and insulted you for the same reasons. So, you continue to insult him, but you have to lay it thick; if anyone finds out, the result would be embarrassing. Oh yes, and more House/Cuddy interaction will be in later chapter, don't worry.

* * *

Chapter Four: Brink

She may have been on the brink of understanding, but her revelation was halted by the image of him that had already been imprinted in her mind.

House was a callous, abrasive, and obnoxious man who flaunted his whip of sarcasm like he did his tenure. His eyes, although seeming to be gentle at first glance, were painted over with a coat of indifference, and his lips, although having experienced love from a woman, felt virgin, like the sands at the beginning of the Earth. Externally, he radiated a miserable air, but, internally, he was a vast labyrinth of feeling.

He had always locked away his feelings, each one trapped in the maze. And that was his intention. If all of his feelings were lost, then he would not be burdened by them. But, to his misfortune, one or two would venture from the maze and would find their way to his mind. And there, they would be released.

That was exactly what had happened.

A bearing of emotion came back, washing over him in such a way that it could not be contained by his traps.

And, although it aggravated him, she rather enjoyed it.

Standing, she walked towards the door, broadly beaming at her new found sense of power.

* * *

"So, how did it go?"

House looked at Wilson in an exasperated manner before replying. He entered the office and reclaimed his spot on the floor.

"I thought the scowl would be a dead giveaway. I guess not."

"That bad?"

"Have you ever tried getting a deaf guy to hear?"

"No."

"Well, that's what it was like."

"I have a feeling you're lying to me."

"Everyone lies. Even I fall under the category of 'everyone'."

"Not when you're being obnoxious. Were you at least civil?"

"Of course. Cuddy may look like a man, but, at heart, she is all woman."

Cuddy stood in the doorway, a smirk crossing over her mouth as she watched him.

"You know, House, if you lay down all your big guns now, you'll have no defense for later."

He darted his eyes to her, their widening half in surprise, half in worry. He was surprised by her abrupt greeting, but he fretted the words that he sensed were resting just on the tip of her tongue. He stood and hobbled over to his desk, the every irritating click of his cane muffled by the carpet.

"Why hello again, Dr. Cuddy. Would you care to join us?"

"Actually, Dr. House, I would like to speak to you alone."

Wilson stood, silently leaving the room, a blank expression crossing his face. Whether he laughed and smiled or frowned and sighed, his curiosity would be uncontrollable, and it would cause him to return and inquire House about his dilemma even further.

"Yes? My colleague and I were having an intriguing discussion about your thighs."

Closing the door, she spoke haughtily.

"Why don't you just admit it?"

He stared at her, a naïve air gracing his features like a mask. And, although the sun peaked through the curtains and warmed his back, he could feel his fear of exposure once again cooling him like snow falling on warm, arid Earth.

"Admit what?"

"That, under your callous exterior, even you have feelings."

"I never said I didn't."

"Oh yes. And you only pick children off the side of the road like crows just because you're a nice guy."

"I only do it to the fat kids."

"House, can we please be serious here for a minute?"

She sauntered over to his desk, leaning over it, exposing her cleavage to him. He couldn't help but smile at her attempt to arouse him.

"And you believe showing me your fun bags is going to make me talk to you?"

"You smiled back there."

"Can't I smile? Or is it illegal to show happiness in a hospital?"

"You're not telling me something. Are you actually happy that I'm pregnant?"

"What would give you that idea?"

"House, you're in denial. Why don't you just admit that your feelings have finally over-powered you?"

"Because they haven't."

"I don't believe you."

She had begun to irk him, taunting him as though she was superior. But, oddly enough, he took pleasure in the fact that she was right. He had let his feelings overcome him, and now he had to suffer.

"Okay, listen up Cuddy, because I'm not saying this again. I'm a miserable person, and the hospital is a miserable place. I was made for here. Sure, it might comfort you at night thinking that one day I'll be strutting around a proud father, but, what you don't realize is that, I won't. The hospital is as much a child to you as it is to me; it's the only thing I truly care for besides Wilson. I support it, and it supports me. And I like that. Routine. Nothing changes. People die, people leave and live, and life goes on. But, with this, there's no routine. It's only changes. Maybe I like monotony, uniformity, what ever. The point I'm trying to make is: there's been enough change in my life. I don't need a child on top of it."

He paused, a moment of tension arising. He had realized it now. He was going to be a father, whether or not he wanted to accept responsibility. Chromosomes. Alleles. A sole merge between him and the one he claimed to hate. He envisioned the eyes. Lines of pure navy would streak across the iris, like veins of ice, and, they would rest gently atop the body of blue waves that would pleadingly gaze upon the face of the Lord. Blemishes of age would be nonexistent; every time he would look at this child's face, his mind would meander back to the period of his youth. The border of alienation between Cuddy and him would disintegrate, leaving in its wake only a wall that relieved both parties.

She stood in silence, allowing him the opportunity to speak, for, her in eyes, he was presented in a new light. In that room, as he stared at that screen, it was as though he had a new ambiance over him, an atmosphere of ecstasy rather than one the one he usually had: sorrow. But, now it disappeared silently, like it had evaporated back to its place of origin.

"So, is it okay to lay my big guns down now?"

House smirked, taking an over-whelming sense of pride in asserting his point in a composed yet intimidating manner.

"Could you explain something to me then? If you don't want to 'be strutting around as a proud father', then why did you stop me from having the abortion?"

"Because nothing that innocent deserves to die? Because there's no dignity in death? What do you want me to say, Cuddy? I already told you how I feel."

"Yeah, and it's a load of crap."

"You know, you're cute when you're angry."

"Greg, grow up."

And, with that, she stood and stormed out of his office, holding back the tears in the façade that was her mask.

_To think you will carry a dead man's child, youth ever so tender and mild. And to think that he smiled from the heavens above, and he released you, like a dove. _

She was carrying a dead man's child. Maybe not physically dead, but emotionally. Even so, why did she feel this great sense of respect? She was not one to be submissive, and yet, she had vacated her position of authority because of her feelings for him. Hierarchy may not have existed for either one of them internally, but on the outside world, it was painted for them in an array of contrasting colors. And it was the reality of it all that stung their eyes, not the way it was presented.

She was no longer on the brink of understanding, but she stood naked in front of the crowd once again.

Except this time she saw him there with her, sharing the fear of embarrassment and exposure.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank God this isn't the song that never ends, because if this went on and on my friends, even I would scream. Ha ha. Oh, that was a lame joke. Anyway, please, if you feel the sudden urge to review, let impulsivity take over for a while. I would appreciate it. As always criticism is welcome —no flames please. Thank you to all the people that have reviewed up to this point, and please, keep reading (and reviewing!) 


	5. Can't Repeat Sunsets

Author's Note: Well, why don't I start by thanking some top-notch reviewers: Chromo26 (one of the newer reviewers, and you added me to the alert list; how very kind of you), nerdy demons (yes, my style is different, and I gave you the impulse to review! Very cool), Jojo (short and sweet is the answer), prinnie (as always, your reviews wow me; you are wonderful), Scrubs (anonymous reviewer extraordinaire! Oh, goodness, I really do enjoy your reviews), ProblemGirl (you are too kind; you added me to almost everything! Gasp!), lijep (such a great review; oh, the power of it was over-whelming), and lemonjelly (my first reviewer, and a great one at that; my anonymous reviews have no cake on yours dear).

Spoilers: Probably not, but I think it would help if I had the story in front of me. Uh, no, there are none.

Disclaimer: I'm going to do one in fewer than ten words! House is not mine; he respectfully belongs to other people. Ha! Ten!

Note: Okay, I did get a review from someone saying that they would like a happy ending. Just to let you know, I stink at happy endings. But, never say never. Chances are that I might do a very dramatic and depressing ending. Now to the good stuff; this is a very depressing chapter, and some of you may hate me at the end for putting Wilson and House through all of it.

_

* * *

_

Chapter Five: Can't Repeat Sunsets

He sat in his chair, contemplating, wondering if he would really ever be able to accept a matter like this. But, he was interrupted by the sound of Wilson re-entering the room.

"Well, I just saw Cuddy on the brink of tears. So, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"That those were tears of joy and that you have to learn how to be more observant? Or are you looking for another answer involving an explanation?"

"You're such a jerk. If you must know, I stopped to talk to her. She used a few choice words to describe you."

"And that's supposed to scare me? Cuddy insulting me behind my back?"

"No, what's supposed to scare you is the fact that if you don't grow up, you'll miss out on everything. You'll be alone."

"I like solitude."

"No, actually, you pretend to like solitude. What you really like is people."

"God, some days you can be more aggravating than her."

"And you're not?"

"Of course I'm aggravating. It's a great way to get out of clinic duty."

"You're just a paradox, House. You say one thing when you mean the other. You laugh at sorrow and cry at joy. You insult the ones you love and praise the ones you hate."

"I don't praise Cameron."

"Okay, so you have your exceptions. The point I'm trying to make is, why do you have to try and confuse everyone?"

"Are you implying that I love Cuddy?"

"No. Do you?"

"Of course not. She hates me, and I hate her."

Wilson looked at him inquiringly, the naked truth taking precedent over House's lies. There had always been something between them, whether it was only a physical relationship or something much more complex, he did not know. Either way, he would not let House's lie move him into a corner and force him to surrender.

"You are a horrible liar."

"And you have a horrible taste in ties. But what does that have to do with any of this?"

"You love her."

"Oh yes, I absolutely adore her. Actually, let's go so far as to say I would even die for her."

"Would you?"

"Did the sarcastic tone not clue you in?"

"You always have a sarcastic tone. I can never tell when you're being serious."

"Hey, you were being sarcastic there, weren't you?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that your actions speak louder than your words?"

"Why no Dr. Wilson. Would you care to explain?"

"House, the harder you try to be inscrutable, the easier you are to read."

"I never said I was trying to be inscrutable."

"No, but you imply it with your actions."

"See, now you know why you're the big bad oncologist and why I'm the poor little diagnostician. You get to fight of those nasty cancers, and I get to give a runny-nosed kid some tissues."

"House, how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How do you always change the subject and rarely get caught?"

"I've been doing it for a long time. I started around the same time I started alienating people, and that was when I was three so…"

"Okay, just shut up!"

He stood from his seat, a passionate anger burning in his iris. And this ire was not one that could be tamed, for it had forever roamed within him, waiting, waiting to be released. But now it had been set free, and House was blessed with seeing its first appearance. He jumped a little in his seat, a sore feeling beginning to form on the small of his back.

"Greg, just cut the crap. Just tell me straight out: Do you love Cuddy? I don't want any sarcastic replies or witty quirks or any of that junk. A straight answer; is that too much to ask?"

House glowered at his friend for a minute, the shock of the sudden outburst of emotion almost too much for him to handle. But, he composed himself quickly, and then replied:

"I need a drink."

And, with that, he left his office, taking his coat and hat with him as though to never return of this place of untamed feeling. He couldn't take the constant repetition. The past had already repeated itself one too many times, and now it was doing it again. Except this time, with a vengeance.

* * *

The walls were streaked red with paint, like the blood shed in battle, and orange undertones ran parallel the objects mounting the walls. Smoke filled the air, curling upwards seductively, before disappearing into a transparent form. Lights flitted from up above and down below, and noise filled every crack and crevice that was to be found. And, in the middle of the pandemonium sat House.

He nursed a drink in his right hand, the condensation coating the glass cool to the touch. Ice cubes clinked and clattered together before melting into the amber liquid, and, he took another swill, the alcohol burning a raw path down his esophagus. This was all too familiar to him.

Drink. Mope. Contemplate. Drink. Mope some more. Repent. Contradict. Drink once again. It was a simple and constant pattern that was followed religiously every so often.

He may have hated change, but he loathed repetition even more.

Wilson was right; he was a paradox. His being screamed contradiction. From his innocent blue eyes to his harsh facial expressions; his scarce interactions with patients to his secretive epic speeches to them; his loathsome ties with Cuddy to his true feelings.

He did really love her. But, like the situation with his child, he would not admit it.

He looked upon himself as two separate people: Internal House and External House. External House was indifferent, sarcastic, obnoxious, and logical, while Internal House was compassionate, emotional, and irrational. External House was dominant; he was present whenever and wherever. But Internal House was different; he had appeared during the ultrasound, coming free of counterparts grasp and gazing upon the situation in a considerate manner. He was the one who would lecture the patients and admit to Cuddy without restraining his love for her, and he wanted House to be closer to the child. But External House wanted to distance himself, and he would be the one to always control the hateful ties between Cuddy and him. If only he could find a middle path, a resolution fulfilling the needs of both of his people. But life was not fair, and, being as cynical as he was, he knew that all too well.

He took the last swill of his drink eagerly, welcoming the numb feeling it gave him with open arms.

"You can't drown out all of your sorrows in alcohol, you know."

He turned around only to spy Wilson moving into the stool next to him. The passionate ire he had seen early appeared to be inexistent, and he seemed almost calm, composed.

"Yeah, well, it numbs the pain."

"And so does Vicodin."

"Yeah, but I just want to numb the pain. I don't want to die just yet."

"Didn't you say that there's no moderation when it comes to pain?"

"Yes, and how did you know that? You can stalk Cuddy all you'd like, but I have cane and I know how to use it."

"Not everything you say to her is kept a secret."

"God, you're so hot when you talk like that."

"I think that alcohol is starting to kick in."

"Yep. Can't feel a thing. Want some?"

He held his glass to Wilson, drunkenly swaying his arm in the air, and, as he declined the offer, he slammed it on the counter. House stood, tipping slight, before taking hold of his cane, and he hobbled out of the bar, Wilson following in his wake.

"House, I'll drive. You're as drunk as- …"

Wilson stopped, watching his friend as he stood on the curb, looking west towards the sunset.

"It's beautiful."

He looked down, ashamed to be seen basking in the glory of this moment. He retrieved something from his pocket and lifted it into the air, a ray of light from the glowing radiance illuminating it. Vicodin.

"House…"

Slowly, with immense pleasure, he tilted the container, each little white pill like a diamond. Greedily, he clasped them in his hand, and he held the fist to his mouth, mumbling a silent pray to the heavens.

_A drunken man's paradise is neither far nor near. Come here my child, for you have nothing to fear._

"Greg!"

Wilson lunged forward, knocking his friend to the ground.

A moment of silence filled the void that drama had left behind. Stars began to fill the sky, discarding the mask of daylight that covered them tenderly, and they shined brightly. And underneath it all were House and Wilson, an argument brewing on the tips of their tongues.

"Why you son of a- …"

"What were you thinking!"

House looked at Wilson, the feel of cool tears spilling from his friend's eyes onto his face like rain. And maybe it was raining. Maybe this was all a nightmare that he would stir from, and maybe it wasn't. In his present mental status, he couldn't tell. All he realized was that he was about to sacrifice his life and that Wilson had saved him, whether this was a fantasy or reality. He removed himself from his body, allowing House to regain his composure. But, even as he stood away from him, House could still feel his tears upon his face, making it feel warm and moist. And he had begun to cry as well, sobs wracking his body. All he could do was cry, for he had missed the sunset of his life and had meandered into the mystery of night. And he couldn't repeat it, at least not now. But, he couldn't blame Wilson. He could only blame himself. Next time, he would go alone and stay alone. He made sure of that.

It would come again; he would just have to wait.

_There are some things that cannot be repeated, like life's sunset. But don't come now; you're not ready yet._

* * *

Author's Note: Now do you realize why I said some of you would hate me at the end of this chapter, right? I love House as much as the next person, but poetic license enables me to do with him what I please. And, yes, Wilson is the hero in this chapter! Go Wilson! Anyway, please, read—I can only assume that you've done that if you're down here—and review as you wish! Thank you! 


	6. The Disposal of Indisposition

Author's Note: Contrary to my beliefs I am still loved after that last, slight soap opera-ish chapter. So, first of all, I would like to thank lemonjelly (as always my first reviewer; I love your reviews, dear!), lijep (oh, you don't hate me? Wow, thank you. I try to improve each chapter, but I can never be certain), Chromo26 (I felt it was necessary to do a little something about Cameron; I'm glad you enjoyed it), FriendsHolic (I'll try to explain it; I'm glad your back!), prinnie (I'm most likely not going to have a happy ending, so, I'll warn you now), and, of course, Scrubs (I did try to elaborate on why he tried to kill himself in this chapter; I also explain the force that caused him not to kill himself, too, other than Wilson).

Spoilers: None as of yet, but the future hold many surprises, right?

Disclaimer: Obviously, if I did own House, and I would have made Cameron less needy.

Note: You want to here something funny? Well, um, I just finished chapter six, which is great because I thought it would take me awhile, but, I need to do chapter seven. Chances are that might just take a little while. So, if you see that I haven't updated, don't fret. I might post a new story that I have written for a school assignment, but that's about it. So, I just wanted you to know. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

Chapter Six: The Disposal of Indisposition

"You are the epitome of the word 'depressed'."

"And I thought I was a hypocrite, Mr. 'My Marriage Stinks'."

"You are a hypocrite."

"Oh, I'm so depressed now; I'm going to go kill myself."

Wilson turned to him quickly, one half wanting to worry, and the other wanting to nervously laugh at his friend's cruel joke. But, he settled on glaring at him. Any action at this point was better than no action.

"I saved you earlier, you know."

"First you saved my job, and then you saved my life. I have to get you an award or something."

"Just promise me that you'll talk to Cuddy and not commit suicide while I'm gone."

"Yes, mother."

A silence filled the void for a moment, and, just as it subsided, Wilson spoke.

"Hey, did you really think I looked hot earlier when I talked like that?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, uh, nothing. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

House waved at his farewell dismissively with one hand, while the other held a glass of rum. He swirled the amber liquid in the bottom, letting it dance, an endless waltz of more inebriation to come in the future.

"And House?"

He looked at Wilson, a spark of excitement igniting the curiosity present in his eyes. Waiting for a reply, he drank the last sip, letting it fall lower in him, allowing his mind to do the same.

"She doesn't hate you, you know."

With that, he closed the door, the almost inaudible click reassuring House that he was alone. Solitude. He leaned back, sinking into the emerald- colored material of the couch, taking pride in his silent victory.

But, he did not feel at ease.

Sighing, he grasped the head of his cane and limped over to the liquor cabinet, his other hand wandering over to the scotch. But then, he froze, letting his gaze meander over to a white envelope balancing on the edge of a table. He reached over for it, placing all of his weight on his healthy leg, and successfully held it.

He made his way over to the piano, sitting down on the bench placed in front of it, and he opened his prize.

Pictures, from the ultrasound. He had forgotten to give them to Cuddy after he had walked out of the room. Not that she would want them anyway.

He placed them atop the piano, and then slid them towards the edge rather carelessly. But, he did not do it so carelessly that they would slip over the side.

He tried to recall what had happened earlier at the bar, wading in the deep waters of his memory.

He had drank, drank much more than he had needed to just to numb the pain. Wilson had entered stealthily, placing himself in the optimal position to view House's pain and melancholy. Maybe, he thought, Wilson was the cause of all of his tribulations. Hadn't his inquiring caused him to take refuge in alcohol?

But, hadn't it been Wilson who had saved him?

And he hadn't wanted to be saved. He wanted to sacrifice whatever little life he had left, letting it fall listlessly to the ground to be taken away.

Away to where? In his cynical state of mind, he was not concerned in the least. All he knew was that he would die and decompose, falling back into his roots whilst his spirit committed actions that had no effect on his body whatsoever.

Either way, a perverse curiosity had taken hold of him, and he did not want to wait to find out what could happen.

Again, he retrieved the pills from his pocket, and he laid each one out on top of the piano.

One. Two. Five. Seven. Seven lucky pills.

Taking pride in his actions, he lifted a pill to his lips. But then, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something small. Something white.

The envelope.

Placing the white tablet back in its original position, he retrieved the item, pulling it closer to him in a hesitant manner. Inside, the pictures were composed in such a manner that it reminded him of ink blots.

And, in those ink blots, there was only one thing to be identified.

To him, life inside the womb was ground zero, a neutral, low-lying zone where life existed in such a way that it seemed as though it was not there at all.

A being would grow, rise from the ashes, develop. Yet, without the support of the one who carried this person, it would die.

And, he wondered, how was that life?

He knew that everyone was co-dependent on someone or something else, but, to be dependent on another life to live in an existence where reality was only a nightmare?

Being a devout cynic, he envied whoever could lavish in such a lifestyle for eternity, for, as he saw it, there would be nothing to fear other than death.

Rather, this state was the thin line between existence and inexistence. One in this position could only exist by the support of another, could only be created and conceived by others. One in this position would not be had not two people committed actions that cleansed and dirtied the soul simultaneously.

And now it was presented to him in a mere image. One single photograph that represented everything he had contemplated for so long. And, even though it was black and white and abstract, he could easily identify the object within.

_When you wish upon a star my child, don't do it in haste, for a needless prayer, is a grieved waste. _

Twice in one day, he had tried to die, wished to die, yearned to die, but, there had been something in the way, obstructing the agonizing, sorrowful, and gradual path to death.

And that was his subconscious.

The subconscious controlled all. His dreams, his qualms, his thoughts, his actions, everything. It was a sublime force that was complex and could not be dominated. On that fateful day, his subconscious had allowed his composure go astray, and the end result was a responsibility that at times was denounced in such a way that it murdered part of his heart.

And his subconscious had forced him to love this being because of the biological connection and nothing more. Or, was that so?

As he stood in that room, watching her emotionless face, part of him had died. It pained him so to see such neglect given to something so innocent and pure. But, what really caused this sudden and controlled demise was not just the strong disregard. Rather, it was because he could do nothing to thwart it.

And that was why he had tried to die. He had tried to die because he could not tolerate the immense amount of disregard between the one he shared a biological connection with. He did not look upon it as a case of love. Rather, he looked upon it as an instinctual actions committed solely to protect his offspring.

He had finally had his revelation, and now it was time for hers. He stood and reached for the phone. Dialing her number, he waited, his impatience growing vaster with each passing second.

A pause, and then a voice from the other end.

"Hello?"

"Do you always sound so monotonous in the middle of the night, or is it just because I'm calling you and not your boyfriend?"

"What do you want? It's three in the morning, and you and I have work tomorrow."

"You sound so calm."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to pleasure you with my anger."

"How very kind of you."

"House, what do you want? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

A moment of silence erupted, flying out of a time warp at a screaming speed before halting in the midst of its glory.

"Because, if I do, that baby will have no protection from any of the crap in this world."

"Are you actually showing concern for another human being? Because, if you are, I underestimated you. You're not as cold as you appear to be."

"Are you implying that I'm vulnerable?"

"No, just human."

And, he was human. At birth, he had had narrow bones that were hidden beneath colored-paper skin, and his eyes were blue radiances of naivety. His hair was svelte, wispy, and golden, and his mind was pure of all corruption. Unfortunately, he had been defiled during his years, and he could no longer communicate with the purity that had once lain in him.

His mind was clouded with alcohol and adulterated thoughts, his hair coated gray with the dust of time, and his body morphed into a figure of misery.

He had freed himself of his candid air long ago, and ever since it had been depressing all of his actions and thoughts.

But, one thing he had just presently rid himself of was indisposition. No longer would he hide behind the morose mask that he had laboriously carved. Rather, he would allow his true self to come forth.

He had finally disposed his indisposition, and he had never felt so wonderful.

"Yes, I'm human. And so isn't that baby inside you. But, there's one thing I'm confused about: If I'm human and you can stand being with me, what's so different with the baby?"

Another uncomfortable silence filled the air, the sound of the wind whipping the trees outside her window making her shiver. The answer just rested on the tip of her tongue, but it had been shredded as it had made its way up her throat. She could answer all of his questions another day, another time, and another place. Right now, she just wanted to sleep her fears away, allowing them to fade along with the night.

"Good night, House."

She placed the phone back into its cradle, turning onto her side lethargically.

They would deal with this in the morning.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm going to assume some of you were confused about the last line? By "they" I meant her in the baby. I just thought it would be a little cool. Anyway, I know this chapter is rather melodramatic, but I couldn't help it. So, please, read and review as you wish. Thank you! 


	7. A Catalyst for Feelings

Author's Note: And here we are at chapter seven. Hello everybody! I know it has taken a tad longer to update due to the fact that I had to write the chapter. Funny how things work, right? Anyway, I would like to thank my reviewers: Chromo26 (I'm sorry! Here's your escape from the calc. induced misery that may or may have not ended long ago!), lijep (I am flattered due to the fact that you write House/Cameron stories but are waiting impatiently for this chapter; well, here you are), Little Lunar Wolf (yes, the nitty-gritty of House's emotions does come out in these later chapters; plus, there's a tremendous House/Cuddy scene in the next chapter), derevkobristow-spawn (what a cool name and review; your update is here), lemonjelly (Jade, even if the world was about to end, and you were the last person to review my story before the Earth imploded, my head would be as huge as it was—if not huger— when I read your review), Lizzy Sidle (no, Lizzy, seriously, you don't have to be a constant reviewer; like your awesome personality, you are totally random and cool, which is, coincidently, like your reviews as well), and Scrubs (yes, I did hear your suggestion, but I have a sort of impulse to use the word air in a creative manner; the cause of this impulse: Douglas Adams).

Disclaimer: If I owned House, would I just be sitting here woefully wishing that I owned him? Well, probably not.

Spoilers: I would do a gigantic, "Um…" here, but, I just going to say no.

Note: This is not one of my favorite chapters, but I did work rather hard on it. It is a little melodramatic and wordy, and I cannot help that. I am, per say, a "wordy" person; I try to use all the words in my vocabulary to help define my writing. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Either way, they're words.

* * *

Chapter Seven: A Catalyst for Feelings

And, when morning came, a confrontation would come with it. Fortunately, for her, in the beauty of the sun, her feelings were hidden.

But Night was different. Night was a catalyst for her feelings.

At night, as she lied in her bed with only a presence within her to comfort her, her feelings for House erupted, flooding her mind. Stirrings flashed in her subconscious, and visions of what was contained in her dreams were presented more openly. Her face became flushed, and a sense of arousal crept upward along the sides of body, a nauseating tingling that comforted and worried her simultaneously.

Melodrama may have been present, but it was masked by the subtle symbols that littered her arousals. The symbol of winter embodied a time of development, and the image of stars symbolized security.

But her dreams were much more intense than these brief stimulations.

Her dreams had a complex simplicity, one that could not be discerned by even the most lucid eye. They were mysterious, passionate, and vivid, and, in all of the detail, she found herself floating.

Or, she found herself floating right into his arms. She found herself kissing him, letting her lips grace his, and she allowed herself to do whatever she wished with him. But was it really her, or was it the night?

It was the night. She didn't love him.

But, if that was so, why did the evidence point in the opposite direction?

It was purely irony and nothing more. And this supported her side of the internal debate. In her job, the evidence was misleading, and, on some occasions, caused destruction and agony to whomever it was related to. But the evidence on most occasions would guide them to the answer. It would lead them along a secure path that, even in its safety, winded and twisted in every which way until the end was found and greeted with open arms.

But she folded her arms across her chest when this proof came near, self-consciously hiding behind the only shield she had.

At least she still had her shield. House had lost his long ago. Or had he gotten a new one, and she had not noticed?

But, although she did not immediately recognize it, it was her who had received another shield, but she did not wield it proudly.

Her new shield was the baby, and it would help her create an excuse for the feelings she had for him that were in desperate need of liberation. With this power, Cuddy would be able to let free her love, but, she would be able to do it discreetly through the baby.

This life within her was no longer an irritant, but rather, it was another catalyst for her feelings.

_Life from within is the sweetest of all, for when you trip, you're not alone when you take the fall. _

But not even this catalyst could thwart her arousals. She could still feel his hand landing softly but squarely on her collarbone before progressing downward her body. She could still achieve that sensation of pure ecstasy when she thought about his face close to hers, and, as always, she could always let her mind go numb with the memories, allowing it to follow a downward path that it followed while intoxicated.

But, unfortunately, at the moment, she was able to think and not the least bit inebriated.

She was just melancholic, for she had allowed her feelings to depress her, deflate her, dominate her, drown her in her own self-pity.

Sighing, she once again turned lethargically, letting her back gently hit the white linen. And stroking her wrist bone longingly, she drifted into the world of sleep, allowing her dreams to conquer her subconscious mind.

But dreams would not keep her over-whelming desire content forever.

_Protect your dreams that split at the seams the moment you awake, for every wasted fantasy is just one more wish you cannot make._

* * *

She embraced herself in the shower, uniformly crossing her arms and placing her hands upon her collarbones, allowing the water to slip down like a translucent dress. And she just stood there, the hot water pricking at her fair skin, needles of heat prodding and poking her every which way. Today she would have to confront him, her shields in tow. But, in the pit of her stomach, an anxiety was forming, a nauseating tingling sensation that made her feel a discomfort. Abruptly turning the water off, she got out of the shower.

But, as she reached for a towel, Cuddy was over-taken by a severe bout of nausea, and she quickly placed herself beside the toilet.

_If only you could transition consequences like him, to allow them to burden another being and not you. But, it is his skill and his alone, and you have not a clue. _

She stood, wiping the mouth with her hand and regaining her composure. How was it that two people could become of the same position for only a few hours and commit the same actions, and yet, only one side of the party would suffer the consequences? How did so many people claim that the position of males on the hierarchy was much above the position of females and not realize that women were the bearers of life? Without them, life would have ceased to exist eons ago, and there would be no men or women to inhabit the Earth. Was it because men held a key component that was needed to aid in the making of this life? Or was it because a woman's anatomy was not as well-built? But, if that was so, how were women able to carry life for elongated periods of time while men only could watch? Even in her position, it was all a complete mystery that had plagued her mind for too long.

She walked out of the bathroom, the fresh thoughts in her mind stewing for use later. But, she could sense that it wouldn't be much later.

And she knew she was right when she heard the tap of a cane against her door.

It was going to be one of those days.

* * *

House stood outside of her door, allowing the sun to fall on his figure. He knocked one, twice, and then raised his cane up to his shoulder where it rested gently on the material of his jacket.

He could hear agitated footsteps coming down the stairway towards the door.

"Hello."

"What do you want? You and I need to go to work, and, as much as you detest the clinic, it's part of your job. If you've come here to persuade me to change my mind, you're wasting your time."

"I feel a strange sense of déja vu… Haven't we had a discussion like this before?"

As custom, she glared at him, through him, anywhere near him, and it had been proven in the past that this tactic work well whenever it was used.

"Really, if you came here just to taunt me, then you're wasting your time."

He looked down, not towards the ground, but towards her abdomen. He couldn't help but smirk a little.

"Is there something you would like to share, Dr. House?"

He looked up at her, the slight smirk instantaneously vanishing from his lips, and the light in his eyes gone without a trace.

"No. I just came to give you these."

He handed her the white envelope, and then walk away.

"Hey, um, House."

He looked back, a slight imploring gaze sprouting in his eyes.

"Thank you."

And with that, he meandered back to his car and drove away, not an utterance of words ready to be spoken.

Silently, she closed the door to her house and then slid down against it, touching the wooden floor and sighing simultaneously, and opening the envelope, she retrieved the pictures.

She couldn't help but smirk at the thought of him fingering these images, holding each one in his hand and staring with gentle eyes. She stood and placed the envelope on the table, once again opening the door and walking outside.

Maybe it was he who needed a catalyst for his feelings, not her.

_Clutch your catalyst greedily and protect it from the elements, because any being who is lost without such a revolutionary entity is one who laments. _

And, triumphantly, she strode towards her car and got into it.

It was going to be one of those wonderful days.

* * *

Author's Note: There, a slightly happy ending for those who like it. Anyway, read and review as you wish, and I'll see you at the next chapter. That will be up by Wednesday, I promise! Thanks again! 


	8. Interruption

Author's Note: And look! I got it out by Tuesday! Yippee! Okay, so anyway, for reviewing the last chapter, I would like to thank: FriendsHolic (no, she kind of forgot it, and, by the way, great review!), Scrubs (four months, and yes, it is in chronological order; I read somewhere that morning sickness ends around the fourth month; oh yes, and thanks for the A!), prinnie (I was thinking of you as I wrote that ending; this chapter is a little different), Chromo26 (Stacey may come a little later, and that was a great idea and review), Little Lunar Wolf (well, here it is… On Tuesday. I figured you guys would appreciate it), lemonjelly (Jade, you make me laugh, dear. I guess that calendar might not be all the accurate after I post this, and yes, there was a typo; you are very observant), lijep (oh yes, I was flattered. Hee hee, I was thinking of you as I simultaneously thought: Should I post this on Tuesday instead of Wednesday?), and MutantJediBauer (I cannot express my admiration for that review! My goodness, thank you!)

Disclaimer: You know, I'm going to put this: If I have a disclaimer, isn't it obvious that I don't own House? Why don't they just have us put the word "disclaimer"; I would get the point.

Spoilers: Probably not. But, if you find one, I'll give you a cookie.

Note: Well, I have four notes. One is that last part of the chapter, right after the part where I state the love each other, was pre-written. So, if it sounds a little different, that's why. The second is this is also not one of my favorite chapters; it's pretty good, but not great. And three, I have to write chapter nine, which many take a little time. Chances are I'll have it up by next Monday, if not sooner. And the last is: this is a long chapter, so enjoy! Thanks again guys!

* * *

Chapter Eight: Interruption

And it had been a month since that wonderful day. It had been four months since those glorious few hours where they each lowered themselves to an equal position and allowed themselves to be squared, and it had been only but a moment since last she had had another arousal.

And, reviving from it, she stood, feebly, in the middle of her bedroom, wondering, waiting, contemplating.

Had it been only four months ago since she had awoken to the sight of his face? Awoken to the smell of his cologne, awoken whilst lying in the gentle curve of his body? It felt like years, eras, eons. But, it had happened, and there was no reversing it now.

She strode forward, sauntering lightly over to the side of the bed on which he slept. Even in her subconscious state, she had felt his chest rising and falling.

Air filled and air escaped. Air filled and air escaped. It was a simple pattern that would not cease until death.

She felt the silken linen under her fingertips, the ever so slight indent from his body not present to the eye but to the touch.

But her eyes quickly darted upward, breaking their gentle gaze from the sheets. She had become obsessed, and she did not know why.

Sighing, she exited the house. He had a spell over her, a curse that hypnotized her and entranced her to a point where an unhealthy obsession had begun to form. And he held this power over her like a pendulum, letting it liberally swing by a single thread over her head, allowing her to devour her dignity to obtain it.

But she could not obtain it. He practiced his tactics, used them extensively only to learn how to use them to torture her. Every other horribly ghastly action he committed was purely practice.

And now she would help him practice something else. Or would it be him to help her practice? Either way, she needed to confront the matter that had been created four months ago.

_Sweet penance for your actions will get you nowhere, and it will drag you under, letting your screams echo beneath the dirt like thunder. _

* * *

She sat in her office, eyes closed, chair turned to see the picturesque view from the window, and hands clasping a cup of a tea that rested on her lap. Her muscles became more lax, lazily sinking into the green wave of material on the chair, allowing her to drift away into her own private fantasy in solitude.

That was, until, House thought it was appropriate to slink into her office, undeterred, and stand in the center of the room and wait for her to turn around. Not that it mattered if she did or not; he had already destroyed the privacy she had.

He stood, impatiently, before deciding to take action. Slowly, he limped over to her desk and made his way around it, positioning himself next to the emerald-colored chair. He bent down, his lips in close proximity to her ear, and, strangely enough, he found himself tempted to kiss her cheek, the gentle feel of her hair on his face causing pure ecstasy.

But, he decided the more responsible action was to awaken her.

"Boo."

She jumped slightly, spilling some of the tea onto her hand and the chair.

"Why you bast-…"

"How nice to see you too, Dr. Cuddy. Tell me: Do you always dream about Wilson in a Speedo at work, or was it Chase in leather low-riders?"

She retrieved a tissue from the box on her desk, wrapping her injured hand in it, and, she also managed to glare fiercely at him.

"So, it's okay if you shirk your duties, but when I do it you have to come barging in my office to reprimand me?"

"Actually, I came in here to invite you to something, but, it appears as though you don't want me here; I'll just go. Don't worry. I'll show myself out."

Sighing with defeat, she apathetically questioned:

"No, wait. What did you want to invite me to? If it's to ask me to a wet T-shirt contest, you've come to the wrong woman."

"Fortunately, no. Just meet me up on the roof at eight o' clock tonight. I want to show you something."

"And that something is…?"

"You'll see."

With that, he triumphantly walked out of the office, the matter that had occupied both of their minds earlier on the brink of being resolved.

_And now you must wait, for the clock to strike eight, barred outside of his presence by an invisible gate. _

* * *

She sat slouched against the edge of the roof, sighing as she looked up towards the sky. For some reason, she was surprised by his tardiness, even though the chances were he was only performing this cruel trick to strengthen the nefarious life-long conspiracy that he had planned out for her torture and her torture only.

How could love be so brutal to the heart?

But it wasn't love, she thought. No, it was merely a twisted game of pseudo emotions, like fool's gold. To the naked eye, it was as real as the air itself, but, upon closer inspection under the microscope, one could easily discern the distinction between the two.

And now they were under the microscope, staring back up at the lens as the lens looked down at them. And love was visible, but she would never admit it. She was lost in eternal denial. That was, until someone could rescue her.

And that someone was the man who was, with difficulty, making his way up the staircase to the roof.

He stumbled onto the roof, dust billowing about his legs as he staggered towards her.

"Sorry I'm late. Internet porn. Amber couldn't resist the cursor."

"Right. Well, if you have nothing more to say, I guess I should go to something productive."

She wondered how good it would feel to hold a cigarette in her hand right now, letting the white paper curl at the end as the smoke ate away at it. So, she stood, moving swiftly towards the door.

But, just as she reached for the handle, he grabbed her fragile wrist lightly, fingering the creamy skin.

"No, I do."

And, with that, he pulled her towards him, allowing their lips to crash together like overlapping waves on the shore.

Tongues entered and escaped, entered and escaped. Passion flooded their minds, conquering all thoughts of malice.

And then they released each other, allowing the reality simmering in the back of their minds to finally boil over.

They did love each other.

And, ritually so, he touched his body fully to hers; the feeling of her bone structure through his clothing created a shield, and, through it, he had lowered his defenses. Emotion moved about liberally, like a dancer claiming the stage, and, she positioned a hand on the side of his face, pricking her fingers. It was all too clichéd. The stars were held within the womb of the sky, but then they fell to the horizon, as if to kiss it. Qualms stalked into the darkness, silently moving about like a night prowler, and, softly, they began to sing with the wind. And he swam within the blue of her eyes. Her proximity to him was one that had never been dreamed, and, even though they were teetering on the edge of extremely intimacy once again, he could not leave his area of security. He pulled away ever so slightly and gazed at his shadow. Insecurity. His own being was still contacting her own, the shield no longer a sign of a merge, but rather, a symbol of weakness. Then he felt it.

A kick.

Slowly, he parted himself completely from her body.

Inside, a mask of happiness had spawned, and it looked for features of his to cover, but, it disappeared quickly as it had come. She had adorned her face with a morose expression, as if to speak solely with the language of her body and nothing more. Their love had become a silent movie, a secretive romance conceived beneath the onlookers of existence. And yet, in the minds of these invisible spectators, it was realized that this show of emotion was about more than an enamored man and woman. It was about a man trying to admit his feelings for a woman and his child and a woman trying to do the same.

And vulnerability. And insecurity. They were laced in between the lines.

So, now, it was only appropriate to contemplate on the subject of life.

Life was a like a day. Each one started with a sunset, a glowing radiance witnessed by those who cared enough to be witnesses to it.

But, life was also like an hourglass. From the moment of conception, the sands of time began to fall. If luck was present, birth would become a reality. A glimmering, stinging reality, but, a reality none the less. But if the blessing had gone astray, then the breakdown commenced. Infinitesimal atoms began to separate, one by one falling into the vacuum of death even before true life. But, this was true life, wasn't it? In the womb, life was teeming from every aspect, held from within, waiting to be released.

But, under the moon, it was not just life that was visible.

It was death and life. It was the death of a romantic moment and the life of a communication that used only the eyes to send a message.

_To touch bone and blood and brain, no, it was not the same, as to touch a life that was within the walls of the skin._

He could easily fondle the components of life, for it was his job. But, he would never be able to hold or touch or feel the life that was held in her at this moment in time. And he would always be able to close the eyes of the dead, but he would never be able to open those of the living. Or maybe it was his eyes that would never be capable of opening upon the dawn of life.

Newly freed feelings meandered from his mind and contorted his lips into a slight frown, and yet, at the same time, a slight smile.

He was contradicting himself again.

_There might have been oxygen in water, but, like his feelings, he would never be skilled enough to obtain and control it. _

But, if he was not able to love this being within her, then why did her gaze gently and adoringly upon those images?

Those were mere pictures and nothing more. This was the real thing.

_He could always rehearse the play, but when it came to time to perform the actual presentation, he would slink into the darkness, and not a word he would say, for that was how he was. He would help you build to the climax, and then he would leave and let you fall, watching with dancing eyes, watching it all. _

And that's who he was. He would help build, create, model, but then he would silently leave. He had done it all of his life, and he was not about to chance his ways.

He could forgo experiencing this child's life; it was not a problem. Yet, his actions reflected sadness as he walked past her, opening the door and carefully making his way down the stairs by way of modified limping.

Like her, he loved that baby, and he hated it too.

And she watched him go, glaring at him with an intense anger that had lain in the bottom of her heart. She made her way over to the side of the roof, and she sat. The stars had crawled back up from the horizon, and now she stared at them.

Another kick came from her abdomen, and, realizing that it epitomized the destruction of that second moment she could have had to confess her feelings, she cried.

There had been an interruption in the sequence of action, an anomaly in the plan.

And, for that, she also cried.

_Do not allow interruptions to interfere. Rather, ignore it and allow your emotions to flow freely my dear. _

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, it's the same as usual. Read and review as you wish—although I would prefer "review". ;) Thanks guys! 


	9. Tea

Author's Note: Yep, Monday, Monday, not so good to me, but I believe the opinion of some other might be different. Anyway, for reviewing the last chapter, I'd like to thank: Chromo26 (I know, I know, a dependent Cuddy equals a depressing chapter, but it also makes for an awesome review from you!), prinnie (I'm sorry I confused you; I'm not sure if there will be anymore happy endings), Little Lunar Wolf (What a great review, and I don't know what I'm going to do; House still needs to "think" more on it), derevkobristow-spawn (I depressed you. Well, it is an angst story, but I'm sorry to hear that your heart broke), lemonjelly (The Grade- A review on why my story was good; dear, you always know how to boost my ego), lijep (You shall wait no longer! It is here!), and Scrubs (I'm usual a high honor person, but, eh, I deserved the B+; I hope I did better this chapter).

Disclaimer: Now for a rhyme- Hello, hello! If I owned House I wouldn't be writing fan fiction! (Oh, no!) And pain is not what I want as an infliction… From the makers of House. Lame, yes, but I tried, right?

Spoilers: Probably not. But, if you find one, I'll give you a cookie.

Note: Okay, a warning for one of my best reviewers: I use a, ehem, synonym for "air". If you find it, please don't scream. If you mention it in the review, you'll get a cookie. :) And yeah, I got this bad boy—or girl—out by Monday, so yippee! I have no idea when the next chapter will be up. I'm not even going to guess guys. If you want to guess on that and you get it right, another cookie you shall have.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Tea 

Groaning, House turned furiously in his bed linens, but, realizing the pointlessness of doing this, he irately tossed them to the floor.

Another day. Another week. Another month, and it was lucky number five to be exact.

Secretly, inside, his heart leaped with excitement, but, externally, he dramatically tried to radiate a sense of misery. The moans, the groans, the sighs, and, last of all, the morose expressions brought to life the play he was trying to perform.

But, in a play, a person was merely an actor, and the emotions released within the vicinity of the show were only meant to entrance the audience, to allow them to watch with shining eyes and open minds.

He didn't want a crowd, and he certainly did not want anybody watching him. He truly hated attention, and, to his misfortune, he had been getting more of it lately.

And he knew who the cause of it was.

Wilson believed in being the usual "good cop" and had let loose House's secret, allowing it to run free with the wind. But it wasn't necessarily his fault. He may have had too much to drink one night, and, in his state of certain inebriation, was forced to reveal the deepest and most vile secret of Gregory House by those who took advantage of his extreme vulnerability.

Most likely, though, he felt it was his obligation to report such a matter to his fellow colleagues just because he always had to be the man of the highest moral caliber.

Maybe it was penance for cheating on his wives. Wilson was not one to barricade his emotions. No, succumbing to his feelings always made him free, clean, pure, but he knew it would never be apology enough for what he did. Guilt was a powerful tool needed to be wielded by only those who could not be overcome by its unmatched power.

He would always feel guilty, and, no matter to how many times House told him to allow the situation resolve without emotions, he always let them enter the already-complicated mixture.

House, by this time, sat on the edge of his bed, lethargically rubbing his eyes. He had grown bored of reflecting on Wilson's troubles. Rather, he felt the need to contemplate his own.

But, to his misfortune, the phone began to ring. And, wearily, he lifted it to his ear and yawned.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"At a strip bar in Las Vegas. Hold on, Stardust wants to say hi."

Not deterred by his sarcastic response, she calmly continued:

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"You're point being…?"

"Get your butt down here."

"Oh, Cuddy, the restraint of your anger is really turning me on."

"Now. If you're not here in an hour…"

She paused, letting a slight gasp escape from her lips.

"Cuddy?"

"Like I was saying, if you're not here in an hour, you're fired."

"Oh, Cuddy, Donald Tru-…"

He heard a click come from the other end of the line, and, after placing the phone back into the cradle, he fell back onto the sheets.

What a day it was going to be.

* * *

Ending the pacing she had started minutes before, she walked over to her chair and eased into it, once again trying to let the green wave of material overcome her being. 

But she was too tense, and all she could do was float.

Sighing with frustration, she brought the cup of hot water that had rested on the edge of her desk closer to her. And she laid the teabag on top of water, watching as it surely but slowly overcame the tea bag.

Becoming increasingly fascinated by this spectacle, she lowered her head to be level with the mug. For some reason, it reminded Cuddy of herself. She was usually slender, light, ethereal, like a nymph, and, when she was free of her self-hate, she felt as though she could walk on top of water, rest on top of water, float on top of water.

But her train of reflection was broken as she lightly gasped at the minute pain she felt from her abdomen. Ever since that night, the movements had become more regular and stronger, and sometimes she could not help but gasp at the strength of this person within her.

Letting the matter slip away silently, she continued to ruminate on the matter of the comparison.

Although she was usually like a tea bag floating atop the water, sometimes she felt as though she was one that had been submerged.

Those were the times when she felt inelegant, heavy, overpowering, like a storm, and, when she was held within these bonds of her self-loathing, she was submerged in the water and weighted down with her hate and melancholy, weighted down with pain and regret, weighted down with flaws and indecencies.

But a little indecency never hurt anyone, right? Except her, and it did much more than hurt. It killed her, murdered her, slaughtered her. Killed, murdered, and slaughtered her by drowning.

She submerged the tea bag completely, and for a moment she swore she heard something gasp for breath.

"Hello."

But it was not the tea bag. It was her.

He had done it again. He had scared her, shocked her, and, as always, aroused her.

He had crept in silently as she paid all her mind to the tea bag, and, he maneuvered in such a way that he had inconspicuously stood by the chair as she watched in awe at her discovery.

Turning, she glared at him as custom. By now, it was a ritual practice that she should do this whenever she felt it was needed.

She looked at the clock on her desk. He had gotten here in exactly an hour.

"Um, Dr. House, I'm glad you could join us."

"Us?"

"Yes, my fellow colleagues and I. Who else did you think I meant?"

"You like the baby, don't you?"

"Excuse me, but where did that come from? We were discussing professional matters."

"The word 'were' indicates that we had been discussing professional matters in the past. Now we're onto the personal stuff. It's so much cooler."

Standing, she walked to the center of the room and looked him square in the eye, a sense of dominance overcoming her being. She had to tell him this and tell him it now.

"You would like that, wouldn't you? You would want to discuss my personal affairs because you're just fascinated by me. You want to analyze me… You want to find my vulnerable spot, my Achilles' heel. Talk about sacrifice and you hit to close to home and tears flow, and you want to see me cry, don't you? Just let those tears fall and let Dr. House feed off your sorrow. Right? Am I right?"

By now she was standing over him, a burning rage boiling the blue waters of her eyes.

"She's not strong; she's weak. She has her secrets, and she knows almost all of mine. So why not even the score? Why not torture her, taunt her? It's her own fault for getting pregnant, not mine. I came along for the ride and jumped off when it was over. But, no, she's in it for the long haul. And I'm just going to sit here and watch her as she tries to do it all… Like she always has."

Falling to her knees, she cried, the tears spilling down her face and onto the carpet. She had finally sunken, hit the bottom, drowned, drowned in everything.

She didn't want to cry; she needed to cry. She had become the storm, the heavy, over-powering storm.

But even storms were graceful at times.

She looked at him imploringly, and he reflected on what she had said.

"You're not weak."

And, with that, he stood, ambling over to the door with a morose expression on his face.

"That's it? I pour my heart out to you, and all you tell me is that I'm not weak?"

"What else is there to say?"

"Nothing. Just… Nothing. Go ahead and leave."

And, with that, he left as she requested. In his heart, an aura of melancholy had spawned, and it made him shiver with the cold it sent surging through his body.

But maybe some tea would help with that.

* * *

Author's Note: Not my favorite chapter and it might not be yours either. I did work rather hard on it, and reviews would be appreciated. I think at the end of the story I'm going to do "Land of the Lost Reviewers" for all the people who reviewed at the beginning but stopped. Anyway, read and review as you wish. Thank you! 


	10. Skin

Author's Note: Hello! (Or, "hola" because I've been dying to say that to someone all week.) And lemonjelly was right… I got it out by Wednesday. (A cookie for you, my dear.) Anyway, for reviews, which I happened to get a lot of, I'd like to thank: prinnie (I might check your fic out; this week's been crazy busy and it's just… Ugh), lemonjelly (trust me, I know how you feel; well, actually, now I do because I'm perfectly healthy as well; thank goodness you're better!), lijep (did you get my cookie? I hope you did, and yes, you're review rocked. When I find the time (ha!), I'm tempted to look at your story about Stacey), Chromo26 (well, they have brain capacity, and trust me, I would know because I know some of them. But, eh, like me, people are busy, but I still found the time to read your wonderful review), Scrubs (well, the grade was better, and I think I deserved it. Oh, and thank you for reviewing my sister story; she was so happy!), Gomes (You rock! Nine reviews for nine chapters! Now that made me giddy! Good gracious, thank you so much! You get the award for being my hundredth reviewer!), and FriendsHolic (I'm just a sucker for great reviews like yours, you know?)

Disclaimer: Same rhyme as last time people: Hello, hello! If I owned House I wouldn't be writing fan fiction! (Oh, no!) And pain is not what I want as an infliction… From the makers of House. Lame, yes, as always, but I tried, right? (Or I didn't because I had the same thing last time.)

Spoilers: I can finally give an affirmative, "No!" There are no spoilers in this chapter, far from them, actually.

Note: I know right now that some of you might not like this chapter. Personally, I do, but that's because I'm not one of dialogue's hugest fans. A warning now in case you think you might need it: There is not one word of dialogue in this chapter. Zip, nada, zero. Really, I'm considering this more of an introduction chapter for what's going to happen next. Plus, the idea popped into my head, and I couldn't deny it true words, right?

* * *

Chapter Ten: Skin

_The skin will keep everything in when everything else is let out, for in your eyes it is a savior no doubt. _

The skin was a wall, and it did hold in everything. The other organs, the bones, the blood. And it was worn down as it progressed in years, aging with its owner. Skin became flawed, faded, wrinkled, like an old picture hanging in the sunlight for much too long. It curled at the edges, creased in the most humiliating areas, but it continued to fulfill its duty regardless of its appearance.

It was persistent no matter how people mocked it or held it in contempt. Not surprisingly, it was House's favorite organ. The heart pumped, the lungs respired, and the liver secreted, ah, but the skin, the skin was like him. It was him, and he was the skin. The heart was famed for what it did, along with the lungs, and, of course, the liver. But the skin, although important, was ridiculed more often by others, including its owner. Even he was guilty of gazing upon sunken eyes, deep frown lines, and, as always, wrinkled epidermis. But, that did not ebb his love for this unique organ. No, rather, it made it grow stronger, more secure, better.

Now if only that was the case between his other relationship.

Honestly, he did love her, and he loved that life within her. But something inside him, something faint and wispy, held him, coddled him, and whispered into his ears warnings of what could become of him if he did love them.

And it scared him. It scared him to a point where his heart began to palpitate fiercely whenever he became too intimate, too close. It throbbed in his chest, beating, beating. He would take a step towards her. Thump. And another. Thump, thump. He would be so close now that the scent of her lingering perfume was pungent on the air.

At that point, he almost always stopped, for this force stronger than adrenaline that conquered his heart pained him.

And that force was fear.

Fear was contagious, and, most of the time, sensed. Palsy hands, a racing heart, sweaty palms, shrunken pupils, shorten breathes. A wave of nausea took the stomach. Hairs on the nape of the neck erected themselves. And discomfort was apparent.

Of course, he knew she never noticed, and, even if she did, who's to say she didn't turn her head in the opposite direction and pay no mind to it? But she didn't, or she wouldn't, for just as he loved to feed on her vulnerabilities, she liked to feed on his.

Oh, and how wonderful it tasted.

_Let the sweet juice of another's vulnerabilities drip down your chin, leaving a sweet path to be kissed. And let that splendid liquid flow, for when you release someone of their weaknesses, they will most likely not be missed. _

* * *

_Blood flowed clumsily through the nose when she was slapped in the face, but under the skin in safety it streamed with agility and grace _

She pricked lightly at her skin on her arms with one of her nails, watching the color fade for a mere second before returning with a vengeance.

It amazed her how the blood flowed through the veins, pulsing along in a river of forever-red tide without halting until death stealthily approached and attacked. Each blood cell, each platelet, and each ounce of plasma and hemoglobin created something so nourishing and refreshing. Blood cleared the mind and fed the nerves. Yet, when a person was murdered, what was clearly visible spilling from the chest where the weapon had penetrated? The blood. Red was considered an angry color, a color of untainted antagonism and rage. But seeing red, she thought, was totally inaccurate. When she was angry, her vision blurred with the ire, not changed a different color. But she was probably being too literal.

Then again, being literal might have saved her from what she was experiencing now. Truly, the word "sleeping" had been taken to another extreme. Had she only been sleeping as the word clearly stated, she would have not been pregnant, but, she would, at least for one night, been able to say that when she awoke in the morning in her own bed, she didn't awake alone. But, no, she had not just slept in her bed; rather, she had done the opposite. She had been wide-awake, alert, nimble, agile. All bodily functions became rapid and sporadic, and everything became rough at the edges like sandpaper.

And yet another comparison of House formed in her mind.

Sandpaper and House, House and sandpaper. He was rough and always would be, but, of course, it was his duty to smooth over others, to kill their points, one of their mechanisms of defense.

And, not surprisingly, this contradicted House's comparison of himself. He was the skin; he was the defense, the shield. But, he knew he wore down even the mightiest of the mortals, the most powerful of the people. So maybe he was like sandpaper; so maybe he was like skin; so maybe he was like every comparison that found itself lost in the corridors of their minds.

She thought sandpaper and insanity, and he thought skin and melancholy. Still, he thought there was more logic in his comparison, for tears of sadness fell onto the skin and stained it.

It didn't matter. He was House, and House was him. Greg House to friends, Dr. House to patients, Gregory House at the more formal moments, and Dr. Gregory House at the most formal moments.

But, what was he to her? Greg? Gregory? Dr. House? Or was it just plain House?

Lover?

No, no, not lover. He didn't love her.

Liar?

He did lie to himself, to her, and to everyone. He lied about loving her. But why? Was it a compulsion, a nasty impulse that clawed his back until it was satisfied? Was he truly in denial, forever unable to speak of his admiration for her and this life that was presently inside of her? But that would not be so forever. Three months left for three humans involved in three separate actions. One was denying and lying, one was lying and dying from heartache, and the other was sighing with contentment as it rested.

And those responsible for this being envied that contentment, resented it with all their might. They coveted the contentment, yearned for it. They yearned for that protection. But, most of all, they yearned for that smooth skin, the new shield forming and growing and protecting, as always, the owner.

It was not vanity, they thought, if one needed the skin of a child for reasons of security. The skin of a young person may have been thin at times, but it was strong and immaculate. Flawless, too, and perfect, at least for a little while.

Perfection, absolute balance. Why couldn't they have equilibrium?

Why could they only have their old skin?

_Skin is in, and skin is out; skin is extroverted and introverted too. But keep it prime, for skin grows weak and brittle when it has nothing to do. _

* * *

Author's Note: Same jazz as always: read, which you've probably done by now, and review as you wish. Constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you once again!


	11. Beautiful Imperfection

Author's Note: (drags self from invisible grave) No, I am not dead. So, first off, I'd like to thank everyone for waiting patiently for the update. It's been over two months since the last one, and the only reason I have to justify the delay is my sudden creative stroke (extreme excess of, and I hate to say this, "unneeded" creativity that blocks what I need to write this, and other, stories). Okay, enough about that; onto the great reviews. Thank you to: Gomes (I hope this helps you overcome your mental block; you're a great reviewer/writer/artist/actress/shipping advocate, and I respect you for it), Chromo26 (well, I want to apologize for not helping you escape any classes for over two months but thank you for the great review), Scrubs (man, did I miss your reviews; they inspired and guided me and made me feel all the more guilty when I couldn't update), Little Lunar Wolf (short and sweet is the key, and your review made my day), lemonjelly (Jade, I'd like to say now that you, along with others, inspire me to write and continue writing; your poetic lines melt into my soul like green paint into yellow paint to make blue, which reminds me: love Joni Mitchell!), MutantJediBauer (don't worry; I gave up that idea, but maybe I'll do a "Land of Lost Writers" award for myself), qt roo (hey, you're review was great, and yeah, fan fiction does that to me sometimes; still, I'm glad you got your review through), (I have a lot of people say that, and I think that I do lighten up in the later chapters, but maybe not; I'm just a metaphor fanatic, I guess), and, even though her review was not sent the normal way, I'd like to thank the lovely lijep for sending me a review through private messaging. It was very touching, and I really do appreciate it; plus, some of the wonderful fanfiction I read from you during my creative stroke was inspiring.

Disclaimer: I will own House when I eat meat. :)

Spoilers: I spent the longest time writing this, and I can definitely say that the spoiler count is a zero.

Note: I know that House and Cuddy are out-of-character, but I actually like it. I'm going to guess that some of you won't, and that's fine. Just tell me what you think and I'll be happy. And a warning this time: I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but I hope it will be soon. Wish me luck if you want, but, for now, enjoy!

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Chapter Eleven: Beautiful Imperfection 

_Stability and balance are key when walking upon the fine line of revealing information. Letting your true feelings slip out could surely lead to utter abomination. _

Skin, eyes, hair. They were all hit by a steady stream of water that flowed from the shower head. Water that touched her skin and fell down, down onto the floor where it was devoured by the drain in all its glory.

The shower was her place of release, a place where all the contained sexual tension was liberated. Those few but precious minutes where everything stored over an indeterminate amount of time was released. Every bit of tension caused by House.

Some days, it might have been helpful to look forward on their relationship, but then she would only fall back into the past. Look ahead and fall behind, look behind and fall ahead. Maybe if she looked back and learned from her mistakes, the future would hold many unexpected gifts.

Of course, the only unexpected gift she had received from a relationship with him was a pregnancy. And how amazing, she thought, that she had progressed this far. Seven months since that day, that beautiful day, that memorable day, that lovely day.

That day she secretly loved. But today was a better day, for she realized something that she had been blind to for so long, a question that she held dear in her heart but never in her mind:

Why was it that every woman, or almost every woman, carried the fate of the world on her hips?

If woman were treated as objects at times by various men, then why were they obligated to carry the fate of the world on their bodies? Their abdomens, their hips? Without them, populations would be non-existent, and men would not be.

Then again, it wasn't as though they could do it all by themselves.

But, of course, all men had to do was simply aid the women. They sat back and watched the growth and the life with simple and apathetic eyes. That was, unless that one of those men happened to be House.

Yes, she knew about him and his secret love for this child, or, rather, she had naturally assumed that it existed and was correct. But why? What caused an indifferent man to become a creature of admiration of fragile life? As she saw it, his mind was like an atom.

On the outer part, over the patterned surface, it was like the energy levels that held the electrons. And those electrons were the negative thoughts that sped across the path of everything positive that tried to break through the surface. And everything positive, or everything not created by misery, was confined in the center of his mind, the nucleus. And, at times, when he was the on the brink of releasing his true feelings to her, he became unstable, and it was because all those thoughts contained were trying to escape as the atom of his mind was about to explode. If were to explode, he would become a different and more enlightened person.

No matter though, for he hated change and it would most likely never happen, anyway, not even in his wildest dreams.

But it could happen in hers.

And with that, an idea slowly began to form in her mind.

* * *

"You want me to what…?" 

"I want you to come over. And it might help if you did it without complaining."

"Cuddy, as much as I admire your bed, I am not coming over. I happen to be busy."

"I'm sure the hooker you hired will understand."

"How do you know that I'm not working?"

"Because I know you too well. If you were to ever do something remotely related to work outside of the hospital, I would kill myself."

"Okay then. I'll go pick up my stethoscope and you go get your gun."

"Ha, you're such a comedian. House, please, I'm asking you. Just one night."

"Why?"

"Why must I explain this to you? I thought you would have figured that out by now."

"Because you're a lonely, hormonal, and, to my despair, pregnant doctor who just needs a friend? Yeah, I figured."

Just a friend, she thought, didn't even capture the gist of what she was planning, but she digressed, unwilling to delay any longer.

"Let's go with that. See you at eight."

"Hey, I never said –"

But he stopped abruptly as he heard a click from the other end of the line.

"Women," he grumbled.

* * *

Standing on her doorstep, he knocked one, two, three times, as custom, and started indifferently at the door. 

But, when the door opened, that look was changed entirely.

"He—… "

He didn't even have time to finish his greeting before she grabbed him and, to his secret pleasure, kissed him, roughly, upon the lips.

"Cuddy," he managed to mumble into her lips moving wildly against his own. And she broke the kiss, looking at him with an untamed passion burning in her eyes.

Black flower on fire. Gentle bombs in the green valley. Sweet chaos in Heaven.

"House?"

"Mm…?" he hummed softly into the pillow while trying to simultaneously inhale some much-needed oxygen.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I did what I did? Why I just all of a sudden called you over and dragged you into my bed?"

"No, because I wanted to ask you why you thought I didn't try to fight you when you did."

"You don't like to question, so why start now?"

"Good point. Maybe we should just say that your lack of sex in the past few months besides in your dreams finally drove you to the point of desperation, although you really don't need much help getting there anyway."

"You don't have to smoke after sex; you just have vent out pent up sarcasm. Personally, I'd prefer the smell of cigarettes over the tenuous attempt at trying to be sardonic."

"Do you realize what an amazing couple we make? We're more dysfunctional than the Tudor family."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to worry about beheading me for not giving you a son…"

He elevated his head slightly from the pillow and began to turn his whole body around towards her. "How do you…?"

"I made another appointment to find out the sex. I have the photos."

"And you actually look at these photos?"

"Yes."

Her voice became softer, more fragile like bones made from fine china, and it shook slightly. For the entire time she had turned her head towards the wall opposite the bed, but now she look straight at him, her eyes lit with a glimmer of happiness.

"Hold on, do you have a tape recorder? I need to capture this moment forever and name it 'Proof of Cuddy's Heart: The Day the Monster Became a Man'."

The glimmer left and she glared fiercely at him; to think she thought that he had let his guard down!

"House, you can leave now if you'd like. Besides, I need to go to the bathroom, and it takes pregnant monsters longer to go than you would think. Then again, at least I can go; it must be pretty hard on you not having the balls you need to pee."

Her voice was a knife of ice, and with that she wrapped a robe around her body and walked towards the bathroom.

"I might not have the balls, but I proved to you seven months ago and just now that the other half of my package makes up for the loss," he yelled to her back as she left. But he knew it made no difference as he heard a door shut loudly down the hall.

Their relationship, he thought as he pulled his clothes on his body, was a beautiful imperfection. It was based upon schadenfreude, the deriving of one's pleasure through another's pain. They would have their walls down low enough to touch the bowels of the Earth, and then one of them, usually him, would attack, causing the other's wall to rise once more swiftly. It was a reflex, the rising of the wall, just as a person will hold a hand over their heart once they are shot. It will continue to bleed, yes, but it serves as a placebo: they believe the hand will help the body from leaking more blood than it would without the hand. They believe the wall will protect them faithfully forever more. But it doesn't. It just bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until it cannot bleed anymore. But it doesn't. It just covers the emotion hastily once more until the wall is let down and risen once more.

Luckily, for him, one thing would help him keep the relationship alive: the baby.

"Thanks," he whispered into the darkness before he left.

And, from inside the bathroom, she felt a hand lightly press against her abdomen.

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Author's Note: In case you have forgotten: read and review as you wish, and constructive criticism is always welcome. Thanks! 


	12. Meeting the Apparent Shore

Author's Note: So it's been forever and a day since I've written past-tense, and this was difficult to do. But I did it. Now, thanks to: Gomes, lijep, bluemist418, Lizzy Sidle, J Daisy, FriendsHolic, Scrubs, lemonjelly, Atia of Julli, who smartly told me to shorten my author's notes, and angelfirenze, who reviewed, amazingly, all eleven chapters. Okay, I'll admit it: I've lost some of my interest in writing this story, unfortunately. I went back and read the entirety of it, fixed some mistakes, and put a bit of the remaining effort into writing this chapter. Sorry if it's as great as you were expecting. Enjoy anyway, and read and review as you wish. Also, this is the first "beta'd" chapter, and I owe my life to the awesome win-at-lifers, lijep and bemorechill. Thanks a bunch, guys! And I have an idea for the next chapter, so maybe the next update won't take an eon or so.

Disclaimer: Honestly, what would be the point of putting a disclaimer if I owned the show?

Spoilers: Oh, don't we all wish?

Chapter Twelve: Meeting the Apparent Shore

"You know, I should start putting this in my schedule. 'Wednesday – Meet with emotionally- and physically- crippled best friend – although that title could easily change soon if he doesn't start working at his other relationships – and give him advice on how to actually make people want to hug him and not hang him by his hair or hit him with his cane while hanging out on his horribly hard floor."

"Ah, Witty Wilson with his wacky way with words."

"My alliteration was better. H's out-rule w's and you know it. "

"Whatever you say, my loony linguist."

"Do you ever think that, if we have enough time to sit here and shoot the breeze like the two old coots we are, that we really need lives?"

"Oh, but we do have lives. I have irritating Cuddy and you have your ties."

Ignoring the sarcasm that padded House's comment, he said, "First off, you do realize that within a month-or-so's time you'll be – God-willing– fathering a child, or, if not that, be a father at the least? And secondly," he gestured with his hands to indicate the topic change, "there is nothing wrong with my ties. Just because all of you in the hospital are having a "Wilson's Ties" joke book published, doesn't mean my ties are unfashionable. I happen to think they are extremely chic."

"You and Jon Arbuckle."

"God, House, I know I made a funny – and congratulations for recognizing something other than misery, sex, alcohol, drugs, or Gameboy for once – but this is serious. You're going to be a dad, and Cuddy is pissed at you. It doesn't exactly make for years of merriment with your kid."

"You forgot diseases in that list. And yes, I know she's angry with me. But it'll blow by. It always does. I'm too good in bed and at this job for it to not. And when, my wuvable Wilson, did I give any indication that I actually wanted to help or even be with this kid?"

Wilson, who was shaking his head back and forth in disgust while looking at the ceiling, turned to his friend. He wondered how anyone could deny what was so blatantly obvious and obviously not care.

"Some of us have morals House, and some of us don't reject what is clearly seen by others. But you, on the other hand, do. What is scaring you so much? Is it the fact that you'll actually have to love someone else besides yourself, or is it just commitment that makes you run – sorry, limp– in the opposite direction?"

House, who had been twirling his cane at his side and looking out the window, did not turn to Wilson. He felt that his blues should not meet his browns, that the waves of his eyes should not meet the shore in his friend's. And unfortunately, that shore was the only thing that could save him from what he had been plagued. And those, he thought, were too many what's to list.

"I'm not afraid. And I _can_ love. And commit."

"Then what about Stacy?" Wilson questioned in a slightly accusatory tone.

House glared out the window, the sunset in his blue eyes like a sun setting upon an ocean, turbulent as the one in his pupils may have been. "Don't bring her into this."

"Why not? It proves everything. You say you loved her, but did you really? I think, if you loved her, you would have married her. You would have _committed_ to something. To her. And then none of this would have happened."

"I loved her – I still love her. And, well, if this hadn't happened, I wouldn't have you preaching in one ear while my conscience and Cuddy scream in the other. I didn't marry her because, I just, I…"

"Didn't want to commit. Greg, it's obvious to you, me, and the real world that you didn't want to tie yourself down to her. And you still don't want to tie yourself down to anything. Or maybe," Wilson started, the dormant realization stirring in his mind, "or maybe you do – because it is also blatantly obvious to you, me, and the real world that you love this kid and that you actually did love Stacy – but fear that anything but misery would hurt you. If you raise yourself with happiness, it'll all just come crashing down eventually – probably sooner than it should – and you'll just be hurt again. And you're smart enough to know that you can't be hurt like that again."

"Brilliant Wilson, truly brilliant. You've solved the enigma that is Gregory House. Bravo. What would you like? An award? Maybe one of those little plaques that describes how great of a person you are."

"No. But it would be nice if you looked at me and admitted that I was right."

House continued to twirl his cane and stare out the window, the sun a kiss of orange on the horizon. He may have been stubborn, may have been sardonic and sadistic at times, but he had to admit, at least to himself, that Wilson was right. He couldn't commit, because committing to him meant pain. He wasn't ready to willingly become high on happiness again like he had with Stacy – the ecstasy he possessed as they made love, as they laughed and were actually merry – and fall down once more only to be subjected to emotional pain so powerful and almost indescribable that physical aching was only a nick in his smile. With Stacy, he had hurt physically; after her, he pained emotionally, too. And the only description fit for emotional pain, he thought, was that it was almost the equivalent to a deep slice through the heartstrings. Only worse.

Then again, that was only the end. Everything else made him feel joyous. So how horrible could it be to be raised high and to be able beam before having everything in the relationship come crumbling to the ground?

Very, he thought. Still, maybe it was time for a change. Wallowing in misery had grown tiresome for him, as well as always siding with the pessimistic point-of-view.

Why didn't he have a little fun? Why didn't he let his wounds heal so he could try again? Because really, obviously, all he had to do was turn his head and let his waves meet the shore, right?

And that was exactly what he did.

"Hey, Wilson?" he said as he turned to look at his friend. He had since stopped twirling his cane, and it lay still, resting peacefully at his side. House's stomach felt pregnant with lead, while his head felt light and numb. So was this what it felt like to be weighted with something considered disgusting, to be heavy with something thought to be unwanted and unloved? Was this how she felt every time she became conscious of her body and the burden that lay inside of it? She was anchored with life while he was still weighted with fear, but he knew that they were both suffering. And he knew this suffering had to be stopped, because was there really any point to what they were doing? Or were they both just adrift, unable to reach the shore and unable to rest their bones burdened with the weight of the water that would eventually overcome them? The water that –

"Yes?" questioned Wilson irritably, interrupting House's thoughts, which caused House to glare at his friend briefly before softening his stare to one of indifference. He was fairly sure that House was going to say something sarcastic, something so grossly sardonic that Wilson would have no choice but to leave and allow his friend to resolve this problem alone. Because even he grew weary of helping his friend, because even he became tired of trying to solve puzzles, of trying to piece together enigmas that were too challenging for just one person. He couldn't do it by himself; he wouldn't. It just wasn't worth the time, the energy, the –

Settling his thoughts, he swallowed and looked closely at House's eyes, which worked well enough to make him feel calmer, more complacent. Who would have guessed that his friend's fiercely blue eyes could make him feel as relaxed as he did? "Yes?" he said again, his voice laced with tired tones this time. Maybe House had been too absorbed in his thoughts like Wilson to hear when he spoke the first time.

"God, this whole situation has been disgustingly dramatic," House began, rubbing his hands over his face. "For the past seven months, our attention has been focused on this one thing, this one matter, and we have had no time to focus on anything else. We haven't talked about sex, about booze, about anything appealing. We've talked about this, about my relationship with Cuddy and the baby. It's tiresome, really, when you look at it." He laughed lightly at the absurd truth in what he was saying and continued: "And it has all been done seriously. I mean, do you realize how many pregnant women there are out there? How is this any different? Sure, it wasn't expected, but…."

"House, are you even listening to yourself talk?"

He paused. "No," he stated, his face now deadpan. "Wilson, don't you get it? There's no reason to turn this into some huge matter, because eventually it will just resolve itself."

"Like it always does, right? When something happens involving you, it just resolves instantly, and do you know why?" he questioned angrily. "Because while you sit here saying how the matter is ridiculous, we're taking care of everything. I hate to say it, but the 'we', it's Cuddy and me. Amazing, isn't it? And now that Cuddy's preoccupied with other matters, it's just me. And as usual, you sit here and do nothing," he said loudly, rising to his feet and looking down at House. "You know, I was actually hoping that with one person you'd see the truth, because the work going on behind-the-scenes has been revealed, but obviously it didn't work." He walked over to the door and placed his hand on the handle.

"Exactly. Like I said, the matter will resolve will resolve itself. I helped cause the problem, but I'm not getting involved in it any further. I'm trying not to get attached, which is what I feel is right. You can have a ball trying to fix everything, but in the end, it won't make any difference, because everything will be fine. Cuddy will have the baby; I'll be a miserable jerk, and you'll just keep doing what you do best: worrying and fretting and caring. You're in competition with my mother, for God sakes."

"House, I'm all for carpe diem," Wilson stated, hand still on the door handle, "but that's pushing it a little, don't you think?" He had finally begun to understand what House was saying, and although he couldn't help but disagree with it, he had a valid point: Everything, for now, would be well. Cuddy would have the child; House would continue to be a living, breathing misery, and he would be person always watching too carefully, too closely for comfort. But Wilson knew that it wasn't a complete point his friend had made, that there was a part missing to what House had said. He sensed it in the minute body language – the hint of a smile lying below the deadpan, the subtle glow of happiness lurking in the apples of his checks – and in the energy perceived by Wilson's subconscious, but what was it?

"I know you're…" he paused. He didn't feel comfortable doing this, accusing his friend of something he merely sensed and did not actually know. Why take the risk when it was just so much easier to be quiet and to try and keep solving the enigma, to keep trying to find the answer and to complete the puzzle? He would wait, no matter how greatly he wanted to speak.

"Good night, my Heady House," he said, his voice slightly morose.

"'Night, my Wordy Wilson," House said as Wilson walked out of the room and down the hall.

Next time, he would listen more closely to the words and watch more closely with the eyes, because even though he had noticed body language contradicting what he had heard, he still did not have enough evidence. Instead, he would gather the pieces before trying to solve the puzzle, before piecing together the enigma. He would live for the day, live for the sole purpose of solving what remained unsolved. Except how could Wilson solve House's puzzle when he hadn't even solved his own?

Maybe he was adrift now, in need of meeting the shore, the ever so unapparent shore. How unfortunate the only other one in reach was preoccupied.

"Why can't Cuddy have brown eyes?" he questioned as he walked into his office and fell into the brown waves of his leather chair.


End file.
